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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003965">March 20th, 2007: A Village</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh'>Jane0Doh</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Hand of God [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But in a kind way, CPR, Canon Temporary Character Death, Drug Addict Spencer Reid, Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, M/M, Medical Emergency, Temporary Character Death, conspiring, eventually comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:00:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,328</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26003965</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane0Doh/pseuds/Jane0Doh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Spencer keeps a secret, and it almost costs him his life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Spencer Reid/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Hand of God [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/958443</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>140</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>March 20th, 2007: A Village</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heyyyy all...</p><p>So, you knew this was coming. First chapter is a lot of hurt, no comfort- but it will get better, don't worry. </p><p>Please heed the tags, this chapter deals with canonical drug addiction, and its ramifications, both physical and mental. </p><p>As always, thanks for reading!<br/>XOXO -JD</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>March 20<sup>th</sup> @ 9pm</strong>
</p><p>On a normal day, Sam would have taken the 185 from work, despite the traffic. It was the fastest and most direct route to Spencer’s apartment, the place he practically lived now, despite still paying rent elsewhere.</p><p>His own apartment was mostly a place to store his stuff, and he only bothered going back when he needed something specific, or when Kevin bribed him with movies and beer. Otherwise, he was at Spencer’s quaint little loft, taking full advantage of his boyfriend’s hospitality. He had his own space in the closet, his own books beginning to join Spencer’s daunting collection on the shelves, and they’d even bought a dining table (their first purchase together, which was far more thrilling than buying furniture had any right to be), so they could eat somewhere other than the couch.</p><p>It had felt like home to Sam, even from the very beginning of their relationship, not because of the space itself, but because Spencer lived there, and <em>Spencer </em>felt like home.</p><p>So, it was frightfully telling that on this night, Sam decided to detour through Silver Spring instead of taking the 185, if only because it would give him an extra thirty minutes to think.</p><p>It was Friday, late enough that the nine-to-fivers were heading out in droves to their bar of choice, eager to start their weekend, and Sam almost envied their simplicity. He wished he was kicking off a weekend out with friends, with his normal, not-at-all hiding something partner, instead of driving through the downtown core of a neighbouring city to avoid going home to said partner. But he wasn’t that lucky, and he glared miserably at the already tipsy revelers who wandered out in front of his car, as he idled at a red light.</p><p>He didn’t want to go home, because when he did, he knew he’d need to face the thing he’d been avoiding for over a month, now. And while he’d had a long, long day at the hospital, and all he wanted to do was take a shower, have a gigantic dinner, and watch some trashy TV, he knew he wasn’t going to get it.</p><p>Because there was something seriously wrong with his boyfriend.</p><p>Gritting his teeth, Sam turned on the radio, but even the late night, classic rock DJ, playing all the hits Dean would be crooning to were he in the driver’s seat, couldn’t take his mind off the “Spencer Problem.”</p><p>It hadn’t started right away. When he first got Spencer home, things were good. Or, as good as they could be, given Spence was just rescued from a three-day abduction. Sure, he slept a lot, and didn’t talk as much, but that was to be expected. If anything, Spencer was almost too calm, too collected. He didn’t act like a victim, and instead he acted like nothing happened, carrying on as if he’d never gone to Georgia in the first place, just the way he intended to.</p><p>Only, the weeks went on, Spencer returned to work, and Sam started to notice things. Little, inconsequential things at first, and then bigger, more troubling things not long after. Things like Spencer’s sudden distaste for everything related to food, something that was so out of the norm for him, it ranked near the top of the list of “Things Wrong with Spencer Reid.” Or how he couldn’t for the life of him sleep through the night, unless he sequestered himself in the bathroom for an hour first, emerging less irritable, and much drowsier.</p><p>There were also the nervous little tics Spencer developed: scratching his arms, his neck, in-between his fingers, so often that Sam was getting accustomed to seeing his skin rubbed red. He couldn’t handle noise, couldn’t concentrate if anyone around him was speaking, which Sam learned also extended to people speaking on television, after one unfortunate blow out. He wouldn’t talk to Sam about anything, not work, not how he was feeling, and certainly nothing about his time in captivity, and while Sam didn’t want to pry, he knew there was something he was missing. Some key piece of information that he wasn’t privy to, and that Spencer was desperately hiding.</p><p>Because Spencer wasn’t acting like the victim of an abduction. His symptoms were the exact opposite of someone with PTSD— their mood swings were usually triggered by things that reminded them of the original experience, random and eclectic. But there was a pattern to Spencer’s, they were like clockwork… the same time, every day. He would wake up moody and irritable, and then hours later, he would emerge from his bedroom, or bathroom, or wherever he could be alone, a totally different person.</p><p>That on its own was enough to worry him. Sam expected Spencer to struggle upon his return, and he wasn’t avoiding home because he couldn’t deal with his boyfriend’s recovery. He was driving half an hour out of his way because he didn’t want to make whatever was going on in Spencer’s head any <em>worse</em>.</p><p>In retrospect, Sam should have noticed this last, alarming detail the very first night Spencer came home, though admittedly, he was also distracted. Spencer’s captivity had been difficult for him as well, and when Spencer practically threw himself at Sam, begging him to sleep with him, to ground him, to bring him back to normalcy, Sam was helpless to deny him, because he needed it, too. He also needed reminding that Spencer was there, that he was alive, and real, and sex, well—</p><p>Sex was life affirming.</p><p>It made sense at the time. And if that was the only time it happened, it would be a different story, and Sam would be happily on his way home right now… but it wasn’t.</p><p>It became a pattern, as predictable as Spencer’s mood swings. Spencer would be inconsolable, miserable, sick, and tired, so he would go hide for a couple of hours, and when he emerged a different person, pliable and sweeter, it was only a matter of when they’d end up in bed, not if.</p><p>Spencer was brazen that way, and always was. He knew what he liked, what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to voice it. Sex was easy for them. It was their language; one they were fluent in long before they learned how to truly speak to one another. Maybe it was a crutch, or maybe it was a wounded, animal way of returning to reality, but it soon became clear that Spencer was using sex as a means of hiding from something he didn’t want to face.</p><p>Not only did that smart like a bitch, but it also raised so many red flags, Sam may as well have taken a tour of the red flag factory.</p><p>Couple all of that with the simple fact that Spencer wouldn’t let Sam see him without his shirt on, and Sam had the beginnings of a very compelling pathology. One he knew was especially odious, but that he had no idea what to do with.</p><p>He wasn’t a profiler. He didn’t know how to trace a line through the symptoms to the root cause, not outside of internal medicine, anyway. And he certainly couldn’t hope to do so, unless Spencer suddenly decided to fill him in on the details of what had happened in Georgia. Sam felt like he was trying to play a game only knowing half the rules, and unfortunately for him, the one person who could elucidate the situation was dead set on avoiding any conversation beyond a casual “how’s the weather?”</p><p>Something had to give. He knew it, and he was certain that underneath the determined evasion, Spencer did, too.</p><p>That’s why, on a break that afternoon, Sam had called up JJ.</p><p>She was the only other person who knew Spencer half as well as Sam did, and she had the added bonus of working with him. JJ knew what happened in Georgia, she must have seen the shift in Spencer’s recent behaviour, and if she cared about him half as much as Sam thought she did, she would jump at the chance to help him, even if it was through Sam.</p><p>“What’s wrong?” were the first words she said when she answered the phone. No “Hello, Sam,” or “How did you get this number?” She cut straight to the point, and needn’t clarify to whom she was referring.</p><p>Good, Sam had thought to himself, relaxing a little in the on-call room.</p><p>She’d noticed the “Spencer Problem,” too.</p><p>A short explanation later, and JJ was struggling to come up with Sam’s missing link.</p><p>“If I knew, I would tell you,” she’d said, grasping at straws. They’d skimmed the details of the case (it was ongoing, after all, seeing as the man who freed Spencer was still at large), and they were coming up empty.</p><p>But just as Sam was beginning to lose hope, starting to devise a different tact, JJ said something that blew the whole thing wide open… and she didn’t even realise:</p><p>“Maybe he’s suffering a side effect from the painkillers.”</p><p>Sam stiffened, his grip on the wheel tightening reflexively, his knuckles bone white, as they’d been when he clutched his phone to his ear, and asked, “What painkillers?”</p><p>“Dilaudid.”</p><p>Spencer didn’t tell him.</p><p>Why? It wasn’t like no one else knew! Spencer’s whole team knew what had happened to him, knew that the unsub had apparently injected him with drugs to knock him out and keep him docile. It was in the report, caught on tape, common knowledge amongst his colleagues. Even Spencer, according to JJ, had flippantly told the EMT’s about it when they asked.</p><p>So, why keep it from <em>him</em>? He was the man Spencer supposedly loved, who he worried he wouldn’t be able to come home to. He was the man who made him kale smoothies because he worried about his health, who woke Spencer up at 5am on his way to the gym because he needed to kiss him goodbye, and who loved him enough to call up his best friend, at work, to find out what the hell was going on with him. Out of anyone, Spencer should have felt the most comfortable telling Sam about… <em>this</em>!</p><p>He was a <em>doctor</em>, for Christ’s sake!</p><p>“I’m an idiot,” he’d said then, and he repeated it now, the Impala purring down the backroads out of Maryland and into the District.</p><p>He was so fucking stupid; how did he miss this?</p><p>They didn’t find the unsub’s stash, said JJ. They figured he’d used it all, due to his substantial habit, and “sharing” with Spencer. But then, she remembered that Spencer had asked to stay behind a moment, to say a final farewell to his dead captor, and they hadn’t questioned it. Spencer was always reluctant to shoot, they all were, and this unsub was only the second person Spencer had shot to kill. No one on the team had batted an eye.</p><p>This unsub, she’d said, and Sam could hear her panic mounting, even through the phone, he wouldn’t keep something so important stashed away somewhere his father could find it. He’d keep it on his person.</p><p>It was clear that Spencer took it.</p><p>He took it, and had been using it ever since.</p><p>“No,” JJ had said, and her voice trembled with dread, “no way, he wouldn’t.”</p><p>It explained everything: the mood swings, the sleepiness, the nausea, the routine. They were symptoms of opiate dependence. Spencer got sweaty and shaky in the mornings and the late afternoons, probably when he needed another hit. He wasn’t eating, because he was either craving and nauseous, or the drugs dulled his senses, and his appetite. And most damning of all were his frequent, hour long trips to the bathroom, locked away, night after night.</p><p>Why else would he not want Sam to see his arms? He’d been shooting up, and he didn’t want Sam seeing his fucking track marks!</p><p>It didn’t explain the near non-stop sex, but opiates didn’t always reduce your sex-drive. Not if Spencer was using sex for distraction, instead of gratification. Which, again… ouch. But it made <em>sense</em>.</p><p>“He passed the psych eval.” JJ had pleaded, as if she didn’t want to believe what he was saying. It was too much, too big, and the ramifications were so life altering that Sam was right there with her, hoping he could believe her when she declared, “If he had a drug problem, he wouldn’t have made it back into the field.”</p><p>But Spencer basically wrote the psych evaluation. He knew exactly what to say, what the psychiatrists would be looking for. It would be too easy for him to play them like a fiddle, to talk around them and convince them he was fine—it was <em>Spencer</em>. He was a master of hiding when he was in pain, to the people who loved him, and especially to strangers.</p><p>He hated that it made sense.</p><p>While Sam had her on the line, they devised a plan, fast:</p><p>First, they needed confirmation. Maybe, despite the mounting evidence otherwise, Spencer really was just recovering from his abduction in a very unorthodox way. Stranger things had happened, right? And before they started making arrangements and accusations, they needed to make sure their hypothesis was correct, which meant they needed to either catch him in the act, or find his stash.</p><p>Since Sam practically lived with him, that would be his job.</p><p>Second, once they had proof, they needed to arrange to get Spencer help. JJ stressed the importance of doing it quietly—if Strauss, the department director, found out Spencer was indulging a drug habit while actively working in the field? He’d be fired on the spot, blacklisted from every other department, and his career would go up in smoke.</p><p>“Hotch could score him time off,” JJ told him, “He’d do it for Spencer, and he doesn’t mind pulling the wool over Strauss’ eyes when he needs to.”</p><p>Third, they’d need to get Spencer to agree to the whole thing.</p><p>Despite how simple that sounded, it was going to be the most difficult step.</p><p>Forget for a moment that this was <em>Spencer</em> they were talking about— stubborn, prideful, cunning Spencer— and they still had their work cut out for him, just because of his drug of choice. Sam worked in the ICU almost exclusively, and while it was usually the ER and free clinic that saw the most addicts, that didn’t mean he never got them on the ward. On the contrary, if they made it through emerge, past the drug-sniffing triage nurses, and a whole slew of other specialists to be admitted to the ward, then the addicts Sam dealt with were the craftiest, shrewdest addicts of all.</p><p>And there wasn’t a doubt in Sam’s mind which category Spencer was gonna fall into.</p><p>He may be a genius, but now he was also an addict, and Dilaudid was no joke. The withdrawal was intense, likened to childbirth in its ferocity, but while childbirth only lasted a few days, at the most, opioid withdrawal could go on for weeks. The physical symptoms, while horrific and brutal, were only a small part of it, too. Most of them were agonizing, but were unlikely to kill you—barring major complications, of course.</p><p>It was the depression, the anxiety, and the brain’s overwhelming need to get high that was the insidious killer. Sam had treated many a recovering addict that, when faced with an inability to score a hit, decided they would rather die on their own terms, then cope with the fallout. These drugs changed the way your brain worked, and any addict would tell you that, after a while, it became a job, a chore just to stay well enough to function. You brain tells you to score, and the anxiety, the fear it floods you with convinces you that staying high the <em>only </em>way to keep from dying in pain.</p><p>Spencer had been back a month. Assuming he tried (and Sam hoped that he did) to keep from using, that still meant that he’d been actively shooting up for at least a couple of weeks. That was more than enough time to form a habit, to build up a tolerance, and that meant it was going to be even more difficult to get Spencer clean.</p><p>Sam cursed himself as he pulled into Spencer’s guest parking space, killing the engine, and just sitting there, not quite ready to go in.</p><p>Spencer couldn’t have been more obvious. He was a neon sign, flashing “I’m not okay!” in big, bold letters, but he’d ignored it, thinking with space he would get better. That he just needed some therapy, or a few days off work. And if recovering from his time in captivity was all that he was burdened with, then Spencer probably would have improved on his own, but it wasn’t, and this…</p><p>It was huge. Life altering, possibly fatal, and what was more horrifying was the fact that he was doing it at <em>all</em>. Spencer was so smart, he knew better than anyone what havoc a habit like this wreak, not just on his life, but his body, and yet he was still willing to indulge it.</p><p>He couldn’t help but fault Spencer’s team, as well.</p><p>They gravely underestimated how many times their unsub had dosed him, and how susceptible Spencer would be.</p><p>Sam looked out the passenger window, up the steps of Spencer’s apartment, and through the front door. From here, it looked inviting, the warm yellow lights in the lobby glinting off the dark, wooden floors, the coral carpet leading up the stairs reminding him of something Dorothy Zbornak might upholster her couch with. It didn’t look like the kind of place that could house something as sinister as this, somewhere a person like Spencer could suffer so horribly, in silence.</p><p>He didn’t want to go inside. He wished he could stay in his car all night, wait until Spencer left for work in the morning, and <em>then </em>ransack his apartment. Because the reason he was even there, to look for Spencer’s secret stash of drugs, was so disturbing, so outlandish, that it rattled his brain even thinking about it.</p><p>But he couldn’t do that. Not only would Spencer notice him the second he stepped outside (the guest spot was directly in front of the apartment door), but Sam couldn’t leave him to suffer alone, not anymore. Not now that he <em>knew </em>what was happening with him. He might have dropped the ball up until this point, but now Spencer would want for nothing. Sam was going to help him get better, what ever the cost.</p><p>He grabbed his backpack from the back seat, opened the biggest pouch, and rooted around inside. Before he left work, he grabbed a couple of essentials from the hospital pharmacy: Gatorade, Advil, over the counter sleeping pills, and some Dramamine. It wasn’t going to do much, but it was better than nothing, and if Spencer decided he didn’t want to seek professional treatment, it would be all Sam had at his disposal to alleviate his symptoms.</p><p>Crammed at the bottom of the bag, underneath his scrubs and gym clothes, there was also a single-use vial of naloxone, and a sterile packed syringe. He’d shoved it to the bottom, burying beneath all the rest not only because he’d stolen it from work, but because he didn’t want to think about what it represented. He was preparing for the worst, and expecting the second to worst—he would rather have it than not, if it was the difference between Spencer living, or dying.</p><p>“C’mon,” he muttered to himself, looping his bag over his shoulder, and clambering out of the car, “stop being a baby.”</p><p>The walk up the stairs was like a death march, slow and steady, like wading through gelatin. The slide of the spare key, taken from its place atop the door frame, was torturous. He half expected Spencer to be waiting for him, sitting cross-legged at their new table, his expression pinched and leery, as though he knew what Sam was there to do.</p><p>Root through his stuff, invading his privacy in his own damn home, so Sam could find his stash of drugs and give them to his boss.</p><p>When he put it altogether like that, it was no wonder the Spencer in his imagination was angry with him.</p><p>Once he finally worked up the courage to enter the apartment though, there was no sign of Spencer. His coat was hanging over the back of a dining chair, his shoes had been kicked haphazardly in the foyer, and the shower was running behind the bathroom’s closed door.</p><p>Perfect, Sam thought, locking the front door behind him, and dropping his bag on the floor.</p><p>That’d buy him time to search.</p><p>Skirting the perimeter of the room, Sam started in the kitchen, tidying up as he went to cover his ass, should Spencer suddenly emerge from the bathroom. He opened drawers, cupboards, hell, he even looked in the freaking oven, but came up empty.</p><p>In a book maybe? Under the mattress? He glanced towards the door, wondering how much time he had left, before Spencer caught him in the act.</p><p>Then, on his way into the living room, he saw it: Spencer’s bag, slumped sadly on the floor beside the TV.</p><p>That’s it, he realized.</p><p>Of course, Spencer would take it with him. He couldn’t risk leaving it. What if he got called in on a case, and didn’t have time to come home? He’d go into withdrawal on the plane, and everyone would know.</p><p>It felt wrong, like a horrible breech of privacy, and Sam knew he needed to do it. For Spencer’s sake, he needed to find out for sure what was going on. He sat on the edge of the couch, the bag in his lap, and dug through the books and case files until he found what he was looking for, nestled in the back pocket: an empty vial of Dilaudid.</p><p>His heart sank as he held it in his hand, but at least he was expecting <em>that</em>. When he read the name on the label, however—</p><p>“Hankel,” he muttered, his fingers trembling.</p><p>No wonder Dean had been following the case so closely.</p><p>It was Charles Hankel.</p><p>How long had it been since he’d heard that name? Ten years? Fifteen? He could barely put a face to it now, but he remembered the man. He remembered long, black hair, and vicious, angry eyes. He remembered his son, Tobias he thinks his name was, a cross burned into his forehead, quiet and afraid, and the week they spent together at Singer’s Salvage.</p><p>They were young, Sam and Tobias were maybe eight, at the time. Charles and John had been on the road with the Pastor, leaving the three of them, Dean, Sam, and Tobias, dumped off at Bobby’s to help with the cars. It had been one of the best weeks of his life.</p><p>The whole time, Tobias didn’t talk. Maybe a word here or there, but no matter what Dean or Sam tried, they couldn’t get through to him. He was sweet though, and gentle, and when they found a litter of kittens some stray had given birth to in the garage, he took to them like a duck to water. He carried them around with him, kittens stuffed in the pockets of his sweater, the mother cat following along at his heels. They were inseparable.</p><p>It was only when their daddies came back that Tobias hid the kittens in the garage once again, scared of what his father might do if he found them out.</p><p>If Spencer was held captive by Charles, then he really had been the victim of a monster, and one that Sam knew. That self-same guilt brewed in his gullet, churning under his skin, and he fought to quiet his insidious inner voice, which was already rearing up, ready to hurl the blame at him.</p><p>But he knew better, or at least, his therapist told him he did when last they talked.</p><p>He wasn’t to blame, because this wasn’t something he had control over. He had no hand in Spencer’s capture, no contact with Charles Hankel, and no way of knowing what became of him and his son.</p><p>It was a coincidence.</p><p>It wasn’t because of him.</p><p>He closed his eyes, taking a deep, grounding breath. And when he opened them again, while shame was still there, it was muted, further away. Instead of his blood pounding, his ears ringing, drowning out the space he was in as he burrowed into his mind, he was seated firmly on the couch, the shower running in the bathroom across the way.</p><p>He was fine.</p><p>But why was the shower still running?</p><p>Come to think of it, Spencer hadn’t made a sound since he got in, either.</p><p>Dropping the vial back into the bag, panic bloomed in his chest once again. If Spencer was showering, Sam would have heard <em>something </em>by now: squeaking tiles, a shampoo bottle, the rhythm of the water changing as Spencer moved around.</p><p>It was far too quiet, so Sam tried the door, but to no avail. It was locked, another oddity, as Spencer never locked the door when he was showering… Sam had a bad habit of joining him, and Spencer was never opposed to the company.</p><p>“Spencer?” he called, knocking on the door, but there was no response.</p><p>No sound but the shower.</p><p>He knocked on the door again, louder this time. “Spencer, open up,” Sam shouted.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>“Come on Spence!” He was pounding on the door now, “Answer me!”</p><p>His heart raced, and he pressed his ear to the wood.</p><p>“I will break this freaking door down, Spencer, don’t think I won’t! Say something, <em>please</em>!”</p><p>His only answer came as the sound of water hitting tile.</p><p>With a bit of a run up, Sam rammed his shoulder into the door, sending it careening on its hinges and slamming into the sink. He heard the porcelain crack, and the handle was still hanging from the door jam, completely detached from the door itself, but all that he could fix later.</p><p>What mattered now was that Spencer was slumped across the bathroom floor, the shower empty and running beside him, steaming up the room. Fully clothed, the shower just a means to keep Sam out, he   curled against the tiles, his fingers so pale they were practically blue, and a tourniquet still tied around his arm.</p><p>“Spencer?” Sam breathed, frozen just inside the bathroom, vision obscured by the billowing steam.</p><p>He didn’t move, didn’t even flinch as Sam called his name. His cheek was pressed to the tile floor, and he was perfectly still, eyes closed, brow smooth and mouth open, lax. Spencer’s skin, the colour of porcelain, reflected in the grey sheen of the tiles under his cheek, the heat of his breath not hazing their surface, because he didn’t <em>have </em>a breath.</p><p>Spencer wasn’t breathing, his chest dreadfully, painfully still.</p><p>The world stopped spinning, grinding to a halt, and Sam lost his tether.</p><p>“No,” he muttered over, and over, gaining in volume as he dropped to his knees beside Spencer’s motionless body, an empty vial of Dilaudid skittering across the floor. Any calm he’d managed to cling to was gone— he forgot his calming breath, threw his platitudes out the window, and in its place was a blind, screeching panic that had him grappling for his lover’s limp arms, calling his name.</p><p>“Spencer!” he shouted, turning him onto his back and cupping his pale, slack face in his hands, “Spencer? <em>Spence</em>!!”</p><p>Spencer’s mouth hung open, his eyes closed, unmoving beneath their lids. His arms hung limply at his sides, and when Sam shook him fiercely, trying to get a reaction out of him, he flopped like a ragdoll.</p><p>This isn’t happening, Sam thought frantically, ripping the tourniquet off Spencer’s arm, and grabbing his wrist.</p><p>He just got him back, he promised JJ, this isn’t <em>happening</em>!</p><p>Pressing his fingers to his wrist, Sam begged for a pulse— and breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he found it, weak, but still identifiable. Spencer wasn’t breathing, but the pulse was promising, steady enough that he knew he’d found him in time. “Come on, baby,” Sam pleaded, dragging his knuckles against Spencer’s breast bone, digging in as hard as he dared, but Spencer didn’t flinch.</p><p>Unconscious was bad, as was no breath, but a pulse was a gift from god. Jumping to his feet, Sam sprinted to the door, tearing through his backpack, and scattering his belongings across the floor. After his call with JJ, he expected the worst, and for once he praised his overactive imagination and unchecked anxiety as he grabbed the naloxone he swiped from work, before hurrying to Spencer’s side.</p><p>His phone rang on the floor beside Spencer's head, 911 called and the dispatcher on speaker, and in his shaking hands, Sam tore the cap off the vial. “This is Doctor Sam Campbell, Bethesda General, I need an ambulance at 2041 18<sup>th</sup> Street, North West. Apartment 402, I’ll open the door if I can, you may need to break the lock—” Sam called out the dispatcher as he measured the dose expertly, reminding himself to pay attention, to stay focused, to pretend he was just at work, “Suspected opiate overdose. He’s unconscious, no breath, slow heartbeat—he’s been out maybe five minutes.”</p><p>“I’m giving him 0.4mg of naloxone intravenously, then administering CPR,” he said, and with a quietly muttered apology, he pinned Spencer’s wrist between his knees, found a vein easily and, holding his breath, he pushed down on the plunger, injecting the lifesaving tincture into Spencer’s bloodstream.</p><p>The room crowded with the sound of the shower, the dispatcher giving him ETA’s and Sam’s blood pumping in his ears. “Okay, you’ve done this a million times, you can do it now,” he stammered, roughly shoving his hair back before tilting Spencer’s chin up, plugging his nose, and covering his open mouth with his own.</p><p>Spencer’s lips were cold and dry, stiff under Sam’s as he breathed for him, watching for his chest to rise. These lips were nothing like Sam remembered, not the warm, supple lips he had kissed goodbye that morning, that parted in a soft smile when Sam made some stupid, humorless wisecrack. These were the lips of a corpse, lifeless and foreign, and Sam’s stomach gave a riotous lurch as he pulled away, flattening his palms on Spencer’s sternum and dropping the full force of his weight into his lover’s delicate chest.</p><p>“Sir?” the dispatcher called, but Sam was too busy counting his compressions to answer, resolutely staring at his hands, folded one over the other, and not Spencer’s lifeless face.</p><p>He wasn’t going to remember him like this, not if he could help it. He would remember him as he was this morning: moody, evasive, breaking at the edges, but alive.</p><p>“Doctor Campbell, EMT’s are almost there. Can you open the door?”</p><p>“No,” Sam answered concisely, opening Spencer’s airway again and breathing past his icy, unfamiliar lips.</p><p>He wouldn’t leave his side, not for a second. They would have to tear him away, and he would fight them, tooth and nail. He wasn’t leaving, not until he Spencer opened his eyes, until he took a breath, until he <em>lived</em> again.</p><p>Underneath his laced palms came a sickening snap, Spencer’s ribcage bending under the weight of Sam’s compressions, and while that tore a shocked sob from Sam’s throat, rolled hot, angry tears down his cheeks, Sam didn’t falter. He knew better than to stop, even as he heard the thundering sound of the EMT’s running up the stairs and into the hallway.</p><p>It was with the first crash against the door that Spencer came to. His eyes snapped open, his head rocking back against the tile floor and he gasped, deep and shuddering. Sam grappled for his shoulders as Spencer tossed himself to the side, barely catching him before his forehead hit the ground, and watched with an overwhelming sense of relief as Spencer violently retched onto the floor.</p><p>“Thank god,” Sam said, grabbing hold of Spencer’s arms to help him sit up—</p><p>But Spencer shuddered at the contact, yelping in pain.</p><p>With a moan, Spencer pressed his forehead to the floor, just inches from his own sick, but he wasn’t at all cognizant of that. He crawled away from Sam’s grasp, trembling brutally, sweat pearling at his temples as he curled himself into a ball on his knees, sobbing.</p><p>“I-I—” he stammered, cut off with a dry heave as his stomach had nothing more to give, bile dribbling from his lower lip, “Sam—I don’t, I—”</p><p>The front door gave way, and two EMT’s ran in, going straight for the bathroom, the door hanging off its hinges a glowing signpost for trouble. “He just came to,” Sam said, backing away from Spencer as the medics pushed their way in, ignoring Spencer’s weak cries of pain as they maneuvered him into a sitting position, checking his vitals, “I—I gave him naloxone, he was…”</p><p>As he watched the paramedics, a broad shouldered young woman and an older, portly man, taking Spencer’s pulse, checking his pupils, doing everything that he would be doing were Spencer a patient on his ward, he couldn’t tell them what had happened. He cast a wild, paranoid glance down at the vial by their feet, the one Sam had kicked on his way down to Spencer, and for a moment, he considered subtly toeing it under the sink, shoving the needle and tourniquet under the bathmat. Anything to keep them from knowing what it was Spencer was doing in here.</p><p>Instead, the reached into the shower and finally shut off the water.</p><p>“What’s his name?” the woman asked him, having given up trying to get Spencer to talk to her. The naloxone had catapulted him into instant withdrawal, and his body was still coming back from near death—there was little else for him to do but allow himself to be poked and prodded, and weep.</p><p>“Spencer Reid,” Sam answered, shuffling uselessly on the spot as they worked, leaving him with nothing to do but stand there, unable to help, “I think I cracked a rib while I was performing CPR.”</p><p>“Doesn’t matter,” the man said, casting a quick glance Sam’s way, “better alive with a broken rib, than dead.”</p><p>Dead. The word alone made Sam’s stomach churn again, the phantom feeling of Spencer’s cold, lifeless lips against his rushing to the surface. Spencer was dead, he’d died, he’d almost died <em>for good</em>.</p><p>“Are you coming with us?”</p><p>Sam jumped, startled by the medic that stood in front of him, and he was aware she was waiting for him to answer her, but all he could see was her partner strapping Spencer to the gurney just outside the bathroom door.</p><p>“Sir,” she repeated, taking a step forwards, blocking Spencer from his view, “is there someone I can call?”</p><p>“No,” Sam said, shaking his head, “and yes, I’m riding with you. I’m just—I’ll be right down.”</p><p>“Hurry up, or we’ll leave without you.”</p><p>“Where are you taking him?”</p><p>“Closest hospital is George Washington.”</p><p>“Good,” Sam breathed, his heart racing. Not Bethesda, not to his work, where his friends, his coworkers, people who knew Spencer would be. They wouldn't find out what happened, they wouldn't need to know.</p><p>The woman left him then, helping her partner get Spencer down the stairs, and Sam hurried to grab Spencer’s bag, pilfered narcotics and all, on his way out the door.</p><p>The paramedics had broken the lock, so all he could do was swing it shut, let it rest against the frame, and hope it stayed that way. Spencer’s neighbours lined the hall, some discretely peeking out of their cracked doors, others less subtle, standing in the open, gawking. Neil, the landlord, was on the phone with someone, glaring at Sam as he made his way down the stairs, feeling like he was on trial, doing the perp walk out to the ambulance.</p><p>There were so many questions needed answering, so many things that needed fixing. Who was going to repair Spencer’s door? What if he got robbed while they were gone? Would his neighbours bother him much when he got home? Was Neil gonna try to kick him out?</p><p>Should he call JJ and tell her what happened? Or should he stay silent, and let Spencer decide once he was able? Would the hospital call anyone, or were they required to inform Spencer’s emergency contacts? Who <em>was </em>Spencer’s emergency contact?</p><p>He didn’t have the answers to any of them, but as he climbed into the back of the ambulance, none of them seemed to matter. They weren’t pressing, not when Spencer was strapped to a stretcher, hovering in and out of consciousness, one of the paramedics assisting his breathing while the other turned on the sirens and hurried them to the George Washington.</p><p>“What did he take?” asked the doctor at the hospital, Spencer in a state of induced unconsciousness as a nurse bound his chest, helping to compress the sternal fracture caused by Sam’s rigorous CPR. Spencer’s shirt had long been taken off him, and as he reclined in bed, IV’s in his arms and oxygen clipped into his nose, Sam watched the dark bruise that bloomed across his sternum disappear under the bandages.</p><p>They were in a private room, the door closed, and a wall of windows letting the nurses in the hallway stare through at them, at the doctor and his boyfriend, the one who overdosed. He could see a few of them gossiping, shooting wary glances through the window, and Sam knew what it looked like. How would someone as cherubic as Spencer, with his big does eyes and sweet face, manage to get his hands on illicit narcotics, without the help of his doctor boyfriend? It was absurd, but plausible.</p><p>“Dilaudid,” Sam murmured, leaning against the far wall, giving the doctor and nurses space to work, the steady beep of Spencer’s vitals a comforting change from the horrid beating of the shower.</p><p>“Prescription?”</p><p>“Not his.”</p><p>The doctor nodded sagely, scribbling onto Spencer’s chart, and Sam knew exactly what he had written. KDA. Known drug abuse, so the nurses and other doctors will know not to leave any medication unattended to, at least not where Spencer could reach it.</p><p>“He’s lucky you found him when you did,” he said, noting Spencer’s vitals, “and that you were prepared.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sam said, crossing his arms over his chest, “he is.”</p><p>Later, when the doctors and nurses were gone, and Sam was the only one left in the room, he would pull his chair right up to Spencer’s bed, and hold his hand so tight that it made his bones ache. Because that doctor was right—Spencer <em>was </em>lucky.</p><p>He was lucky Sam had figured out what was wrong with him just that afternoon, and had thought enough to steal opioid antagonists from work. He was lucky that Sam came home when he did, and not a moment later. That while Sam had taken a detour to get to the apartment, he hadn’t decided to go back to his own place first, or instead. This night could have ended very differently; Sam could be sitting in the morgue right now, instead of Spencer’s bedside, holding the hand of a corpse.</p><p>Sam turned Spencer’s arm by the hand, and stared somberly at constellation of pockmarks along his inner arm, some scabbed and healing, others indented and discoloured dots of scar tissue. There were so many, clear as day now that Sam was allowed to see them, and they glared up at him accusingly, reminding him of his ignorance.</p><p>Maybe, it wouldn’t have gotten to this point, if Sam had just figured it out sooner.</p><p>If Spencer had trusted him enough to tell him the truth.</p><p>Above him, Spencer sniffled, and coughed. He was still asleep, coaxed into unconsciousness by a small dose of anaesthetic, to quell his shaking and dull his pain as the doctor treated him. But even asleep, his limbs still trembled, his legs twitching rhythmically as the junk he was shooting himself up with worked its way out of his system. No doubt the doctors had a steady drip of naloxone in his IV, keeping him sober and sick, and that same medicine made him shake uncontrollably, a sheen of sweat glistening at Spencer’s temples, his sleeping face drawn into a pained grimace.</p><p>It was gonna be hell for him, when he woke up.</p><p>And the vicious, angry part of Sam, the one who had been forced to perform CPR on his boyfriend until his sternum cracked, was glad for it.</p><p>He needed to remind himself to keep calm, to give Spencer the benefit of the doubt, but damn, it was hard. Maybe, if he hadn’t been dying only a few hours ago, Sam might have managed a little compassion. As it was, he could barely keep from shaking Spencer by the shoulders as he finally awoke, blinking his eyes wearily, his voice like sandpaper as he asked, “what happened?”</p><p>“It’s okay,” Sam said, stroking the back of Spencer’s hand soothingly, his ire almost dissipating as he watched Spencer’s eyes open wider, as he crawled to consciousness.</p><p>Glancing around the room first, Spencer huffed in confusion, sinking pitifully back into the bed. He tugged at the neck of his hospital gown, and Sam flicked his eyes towards the beeping monitor, Spencer’s heart rate climbing with his distress. When he noticed the IV in his arm, and realized that Sam was sitting there, that he could see the damage he did to himself, that he <em>knew</em>, Spencer seemingly snapped to his senses.</p><p>He wouldn’t even look at him. Eyes fixed to the foot of the bed, his gown quickly soaking with sweat, Spencer groaned as sat up straight. “No,” Spencer grumbled, using the hand rails of the bed to haul himself up, his bare feet bunching the sheets, and his legs shaking like a newborn deer’s, “no, no, this can’t—this isn’t happening. I can’t—I need—"</p><p>Sam watched from his seat as Spencer attempted to throw his legs off the bed, his jaw slack with disbelief. And while he had no clue where Spencer thought he was going, Sam stood and followed him anyways, rounding the bed and grabbing both of Spencer’s ankles, forcibly shoving him back into bed.</p><p>The shock and terror he’d been subsumed with was quickly smoldering out, leaving nothing but mounting fury in its wake.</p><p>Spencer sputtered indignantly and groaned in pain at Sam’s touch, his sweaty hair sticking to his face in rivulets. Sam glared down at him, just as indignant but twice as angry, and Spencer looked him up and down, his eyes hazy and unfocused as he asked, “What—what are you doing?”</p><p>Sam knew he should be gentle, but he just couldn’t. There was a part of him who wanted to be understanding, who had come to his apartment with the sole purpose of talking to Spencer, hearing him out, and supporting him in whatever he chose to do. But that part was now outweighed by the one who resuscitated him with an emergency dose of naloxone, the one who found him dying on his bathroom floor, and this part of him wasn’t feeling too pleasant.</p><p>His hands balling at his sides, Sam snapped, “What are <em>you </em>doing!?”</p><p>Spencer flinched at his ferocity, shrinking back, and if Sam were in his right mind, that would have lanced him through with guilt. As it was, he was too hurt, too angry to feel it at all, especially when Spencer’s next move was to bite back at him.</p><p>“None of your—” he started, but the look of warning Sam shot him made him think better of it. “I was… a shower. I was going to take a shower,” Spencer frowned as he looked around, as though he’d just realized they weren’t in his home, “Are we in— Did you break my door?”</p><p>“Yeah, I did,” Sam said, matter-of-factly.</p><p>Blinking owlishly, Spencer furrowed his brow and asked, “Why would you do that?”</p><p>It was so obstinate, said with all the wherewithal of a petulant child, that Sam snapped.</p><p>“To save your fucking life!” Sam roared, throwing his arms out to the sides, “Jesus, Spencer! You were dying on your bathroom floor; were you trying to go out in the most clichéd overdose ever?!”</p><p>Spencer shuffled backwards again, but this time it wasn’t because he was startled. He didn’t want to be here, having this conversation, and he turned his whole body, putting his back to Sam as he said, “I was <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“Sure.” Sam didn’t let him get far. He rounded the bed until Spencer was facing him again, and flattened his hands on the mattress. “You’re not even gonna try and deny that you were shooting up, are you?”</p><p>With a grim, miserable smile, Spencer laughed at that, like it was ridiculous of Sam to even ask. “What’s the point?” he said, wrapping his arms around himself as a particularly violent tremor shook his slender frame, “You clearly <em>know</em>.”</p><p>He didn’t recognize this person sitting before him, folding his legs up to his chest and trying to pretend he wasn’t suffering horribly. This wasn’t his Spencer, not by a mile. He was someone else entirely, dejected, cagey, and even his eyes looked different in the way he glared at him, almost daring Sam to argue. Like he wanted to fight.</p><p>Well, Sam wouldn’t give it to him. Not in the way he was looking for. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?” he asked, sinking back into his chair. He reached for Spencer’s hand, and ignored how much it smarted when Spencer snatched it away.</p><p>“Tell you what? That my captor was forcibly injecting me with opiates, and I’ve been secretly using ever since?” Spencer hunched over his knees, like he wanted to disappear into the bed, through the floor, and his voice, his posture, the very expression on his face, all oozed with self-loathing, “How could I? Where would I even begin?”</p><p>“That right there would have been a good start.”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“I know.” Sam sighed, “Spencer—”</p><p>“God!” Sam startled as Spencer crumpled, folding himself practically in half as he clutched at his knees. “I feel awful…” he moaned miserably, sliding down until he was laying on his side, the sheets kicked off the bed as he curled into the fetal position, “what did you do?”</p><p>“Naloxone. I had to, baby.”</p><p>Spencer whimpered, his upper lip curling in a sob, “It feels like I’m dying.”</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Sam murmured, reaching out a hand to brush his hair back from his face, where it was matted down with sweat, “Here, let me—”</p><p>But Spencer swatted his hand away.</p><p>“Don’t touch me!” he snarled, shoving himself away from Sam’s side, until he was pressed against the railing on the opposite side of the bed, “You’ve done enough.”</p><p>“Are you,” Sam stammered, climbing to his feet, astonished and hurt as Spencer glared up at him feebly, “are you honestly mad at me for saving your life?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” Spencer kept repeating, like if he said it enough times it would suddenly be true. He tried to right himself, wobbling unsteadily as he held himself up on shaking arms, “I would have been <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“You would have been <em>dead</em>,” Sam corrected.</p><p>Spencer scoffed, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”</p><p>He almost missed that, with how casually Spencer threw it out. “What?” Sam asked, walking slowly around the bed, following Spencer when he turned away from him, not letting him go.</p><p>What did he mean by that?</p><p>But Spencer refused to even acknowledge his question. Instead, he curled up in a trembling ball, his knees to his chest and sniffling pitifully, the pillow quickly becoming sodden with sweat, snot dripping uncontrollably from his nose.</p><p>He looked so pathetic, so helpless, and while Sam was still vibrating with anger, he felt for him. He was furious, but he still loved him, and seeing him like this broke his heart. </p><p>“Please,” Sam begged, sitting on the edge of the bed, “Will you please let me help you?”</p><p>Spencer shook his head, “I can handle it.”</p><p>“You can’t just handle something like this,” he said, ducking his head so he could look into Spencer’s eyes, dark and bloodshot, as Spencer hid his face in the crook of his elbow, “it’s not a problem that just goes away.”</p><p>“How would you know?”</p><p>“I’m a doctor—”</p><p>Spencer snorted, “So am I—”</p><p>“Childish and pedantic aren’t a winning combination on you,” Sam interjected, “I’ve seen my share of addicts Spence, and you’re not going to get past this through denial and sheer force of will.”</p><p>“I don’t need to get past anything!” Spencer shoved himself upright again, using the backrest of the bed to steady himself as his legs trembled so violently, they almost knocked Spencer over, “I told you, I’m fine.”</p><p>“Bullshit.” Spencer kept trying to get away from him, throwing his legs over the opposite side of the bed, turning his back on him, but Sam wouldn’t let him go. He wouldn’t let Spencer run away from this, chasing after him and bombarding him with the truth, “You can barely move by yourself, you’re shaking so bad. And this is only the start; it’s going to get worse before it gets better, and you can’t possibly think you can make it through withdrawal without—”</p><p>Suddenly, Spencer wasn’t trying to get away from him anymore. He sat perched on the edge of his bed, his lower lip trembling as he met Sam’s gaze, defiantly jutted out his chin, and asked, “Who said anything about withdrawal?”</p><p>Sam huffed incredulously, thinking for a moment Spencer was making some stupid joke. He had to be; he couldn’t possibly be insinuating…</p><p>But Spencer stared pointedly at him, quietly listening to the blood pressure monitor beeping, and Sam realized that he was completely, utterly serious.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sam said, dread creeping up his spine, prickling at his skin, “You’re not going to keep doing this. I won’t let you.”</p><p>“Let me?” Spencer curled his lip in disgust, his brow furrowing angrily, “Who do you think you are, my dad? You can’t <em>let </em>me do anything!”</p><p>As Spencer’s voice rose in volume, so did the attention of the nurses. Sam could see them staring through the window, Spencer’s indignant shout audible through the closed door, and they watched cautiously, one of them standing close to the phone, in case they needed to call security.</p><p>“I’m a person who loves you,” Sam murmured, flicking his gaze back to Spencer, “and I refuse to let you fucking kill yourself.” When Spencer rolled his eyes, Sam strode across the room and grabbed Spencer’s bag, much to his unease. “And believe me, this shit,” Sam said, shoving his hand inside and coming up with an empty vial of Dilaudid, which he held aloft, “<em>will </em>kill you.”</p><p>For a moment, Sam thought he might have gotten through to him. Spencer bit his lip, his arms crossed over his chest defensively, and he looked like he might start to cry again.</p><p>Then he pursed his lips, and said, “Not if I’m careful.”</p><p>“Jesus Christ, Spencer,” Sam breathed, not believing his ears, “Can you even hear yourself?”</p><p>Spencer just turned his back to him once more, staring resolutely at the opposite wall.</p><p>“Look, I know you’re scared. I know you feel like hell right now, and I know you know it’s only the beginning, but I can help you. I can get you painkillers— non-narcotic ones— Ambien so you can sleep through the worst of it, a freaking IV!” Sam was pleading now, desperation seeping into his voice, and he rounded the bed just to see Spencer, his lover, who was hurting, sick, not thinking straight, who needed his help but wouldn’t <em>take it</em>, “I can get you into an inpatient facility in less than an hour if you need it, baby, just please…”</p><p>In hindsight, that was probably the worst thing he could have said. But in the moment, Sam didn’t notice the way Spencer’s shoulders drew up to his ears like an angry cat, or how the air grew heavy and tense, crackling between them like static electricity.</p><p>“Inpatient facility?” Spencer asked.</p><p>“Yes!” Sam exclaimed, finally getting a response, “There’s a clinic downtown that I’ve referred patients to before. It’s a nice place, they’d take good care of you.”</p><p>“So, lock me up?” He turned, his words seething as he glowered at Sam, hurt and betrayal plain across his face, “That’s your solution? Commit me to an institution like a crazy person?”</p><p>“No,” Sam said, raising his hands between them in a placating gesture, seeing immediately the trap he stepped into, “that’s not what I’m saying at all.”</p><p>“That’s <em>exactly </em>what you’re saying!” Spencer screamed, tears spilling over onto his cheeks, and in his periphery Sam saw one of the nurses’ jump, “You want to put me in a fucking facility!? What’s next? Are you going to sign away my rights? Are you going to try and take my power of attorney? Convince some fucking shrink that I’m not capable of deciding what’s in my best interest, so they better do it for me!?”</p><p>“You know that’s not what I meant,” Sam caught him as tried to push past onto his feet, grabbing Spencer by the crook of his elbow, “You’re just hearing what you want to.”</p><p>Spencer immediately ripped out of his grasp, “Did you plan this?”</p><p>“No—” he stammered, wincing when he realized that wasn’t quite the truth, “I mean, JJ and I discussed a couple of options.”</p><p>He was fucking this whole thing up. Spencer gaped at him, completely outraged, and Sam knew he wasn’t going to be able to pull him back. This wasn’t a conversation; it hadn’t been for a while now. It was an interrogation, one he was on the receiving end of, and he was failing miserably at redirecting it.</p><p>“You talked to JJ about this?” Spencer asked, choking down a wounded sob, “Behind my back?”</p><p>There was no way he could defuse the situation, and it was pointless to try. Be honest, “I knew something was going on, and you weren’t talking to me—”</p><p>“So, you went to my friend and colleague to get dirt on me instead.” It was the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but part of it, and Sam didn’t falter when Spencer slammed his fist against the pillow. “What the fuck, Sam?” he shouted, and with one great, heaving shove he was wobbling on his feet, glaring daggers mere inches from Sam’s face, “How could you <em>do </em>that!?”</p><p>“You make it sound like we were conspiring against you,” Sam argued, throwing his hands out to the sides, like what he was saying was obvious, like Spencer was missing the point on purpose, “we weren’t, we were just… we just want to <em>help</em> you!”</p><p>“What if JJ talks to Strauss? Gideon? Did you even think about that?” Spencer scoffed, “I could lose my job. My whole career, everything I worked for my entire life could be gone in an instant!”</p><p>“If we don’t take care of this soon, that’s going to happen anyways.”</p><p>Spencer shook his head, “You sure have embarrassingly little faith in me.”</p><p>“Kind of hard to, when I found you overdosing next to your fucking toilet.”</p><p>“Get out,” Spencer hissed through his teeth, pointing at the door, “Right now!”</p><p>This was pointless.</p><p>Spencer wasn’t willing to listen, and he didn’t want to talk. If Spencer wanted to fight, then there was no way for Sam to change that. And if he stayed and indulged him, it would devolve into a pissing match, with one or both of them saying things they’d regret, resulting in nothing but hurt feelings. He had his proof, he could still take it to JJ—and maybe once they’d arranged for Spencer to have time off, he’d be more willing to talk rationally.</p><p>Besides, the nurses outside looked restless. If they kept this up, the only resolution Sam was going to reach would be with hospital security, as they hauled him out the back door.</p><p>“Fine,” Sam said, breaking out of their stand-off and grabbing Spencer’s bag, “but I’m calling JJ and letting her know where you are. And I’m taking this—” he reached in, tossing books and pens, Spencer’s wallet and keys, onto the floor in search for the vial, “I’m not going to leave you with…”</p><p>He just kept on getting lucky, tonight. Only by chance did he notice that the notepad he pulled out of Spencer’s bag, that he held his hand, was out of the ordinary. It wasn’t one of Spencer’s usual stenographer’s notebooks; it was a small, square pad, about the size of his palm, and when Sam squinted down at it, he recognized it immediately.</p><p>His name was emblazoned on the top: Dr. Samuel Campbell, MD, a title he was so proud of, that he’d earned through pure grit and determination.</p><p>It was his prescription pad. The one he’d reported missing just that morning, when it wasn’t in his backpack before rounds.</p><p>“What is this?” he asked, and though he knew the answer already, he didn’t want to believe it, “Is this—this is mine.” His heart clenched painfully as he looked up at Spencer, hoping for an better explanation, “Did you steal this?”</p><p>Spencer stood beside the bed, trembling, silent, and overwhelming guilty.</p><p>“You did,” Sam croaked, a lump forming in his throat, “you stole from me. You were going to forge yourself a prescription, weren’t you?”</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Spencer said, holding himself up with his palms flat on the bed, his knees buckling, “I thought about it, but I couldn’t—”</p><p>“That’s rich.” Sam dropped the bag to the ground, holding his notepad with both hands, staring at it like he was willing it to disappear, for this whole fucked up situation to just vanish, “You accuse me of putting your career in jeopardy just by trying to help you, and yet you were going to commit a felony in my name. I could go to jail for this, you know? I could lose <em>my </em>job, my whole life, everything <em>I </em>worked for… but you couldn’t care less about that, could you?” He glanced up at Spencer, pinning him to the spot, and said, “You’re that selfish.”</p><p>Floundering now that the needle was pointing at him, Spencer wilted. “I didn’t do anything,” he pleaded, his lower lip trembling, his eyes big, sad, and infuriating.</p><p>“But you were going to.”</p><p>“I wasn’t.”</p><p>“You stole from me!” Spencer flinched at the sound of Sam’s voice, loud and echoing off the walls, and he knew there was only so much longer they could do this, before the nurses skipped security entirely, and called the cops, “Or do you expect me to believe this just found its way into your bag?”</p><p>“I told you, I thought about it, and yes I stole it, but I wouldn’t—I couldn’t actually go through with it!” The difference between this Spencer, and the one he was just arguing with was like night and day. Like flipping a switch, Spencer had gone from confrontational and defensive, to pitiful, trying to manipulate him, to play his feelings in his favour, “Sam, I’m sick. You said it yourself, I’m not thinking straight.”</p><p>“You know what?” Sam said, furious and utterly defeated, “That’s enough. Officially enough. If you don’t want help, I’m not gonna force you to get it. But I’m not gonna stick around while you ruin your god damned life, and fucking kill yourself. Congratulations, you win, I’m out.”</p><p>He threw Spencer’s bag onto the floor, the last of his Dilaudid clutched in one tight fist, pointedly ignoring Spencer, who was hiccupping through his tears as he slumped back against the bed. “Fine,” Spencer called to him as he gathered his backpack, tossing his prescription pad in amongst his clothes, and the things he brought for Spencer, to ease his pain, to help him get better, “Go. I don’t want you here anyways.”</p><p>That hurt so fucking much, Sam couldn’t breathe. “You don’t mean that,” he said, turning his back, unable to meet Spencer’s gaze.</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He was supposed to listen, to let Sam help him, to trust him to do right by him. And if he was in his right mind, if he were still Sam’s Spencer, he would. But this was a different person, curled up on an anonymous hospital bed, speaking in Spencer’s voice, wearing Spencer’s face, and he wasn’t listening to him. He didn’t trust him.</p><p>“I’m serious,” Sam said, his hands shaking as he held his backpack in one hand, and the vials of Dilaudid in the other, his vision swimming, “If I walk out that door, I’m not coming back.”</p><p><em>Please don’t make me do this</em>, he begged in his mind, willing Spencer to come to his senses.</p><p><em>Please, don’t send me away</em>.</p><p>In the reflection of the window, Sam watched as Spencer drew his knees up to his chest, muttering, “Good.”</p><p>“Spencer—” Sam pleaded, tears spilling over onto his cheeks, his heart breaking.</p><p>“Get out.”</p><p>“Please—”</p><p>“<em>Leave!</em>”</p><p>With a final flash of frustration and rage, Sam threw the vials against the wall, Spencer recoiling from the sound of shattering glass, the nurse finally picking up the phone and dialing security. “Fine,” he hissed, and he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him, pretending he didn’t hear Spencer’s agonized sobs on the way out.</p>
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